Stolen
by Sastrei
Summary: Kratos has 99 problems. Sara is all of them. (Kratos' POV; pre-Sylvarant Tower of Salvation. Companion oneshot to my main story, 'Ashes.')


A/N: Oh, you brave soul. I love you. First: Thank you for looking.

Secondly: This story is rated A FIRM " ** _M_** " for language and sexual content. Consensual, adult, M/F sexual content. If that's not your thing: turn back now, before your retinas detach.

For those of you that have read 'Ashes' - this scene would take place directly after Sara discovers the truth about Anna, at Dirk's house in Iselia. And before Kratos knows the truth himself. His guilt comes from having to face his upcoming inevitable betrayal at the Tower of Salvation. And what that means for he and Sara.

Let's be real, here: this is basically a gratuitous, shameless exercise in my two absolute favorite things to write:  
1) Kratos' guilt, and  
2) sex.

It's been lurking on my Docs account for awhile and I decided on a whim to upload it, on the offchance other people enjoy reading hot steamy Kratos-centered guilty boning as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Here goes nothing! ;)

* * *

' _Cause I stole your soul  
_ _You said I'd never be able,  
_ _But oh, the whole world is still on my string_

* * *

Evergreen trees ate starlight, producing obsidian shade from their meal. Wind rustled their tips just barely, a caressing kiss; Kratos enjoyed the noise, solemn in its beauty. He walked among the trees, occasionally brushing a reverent hand against one of their ancient trunks as he strode forward, his boots making little to no sound on the dense, spongy ground.

Eventually, he found a clearing, speckled with vivid ochre wildflowers and countless clumps of soft clover. A particularly large tree stood amidst the flora, with knobby, lanky branches that in parts swayed all the way to the ground. Kratos rested his back against it, and slowly melted into a sitting position with his long, lean legs stretched out in front of him, one ankle crossed over the other. His burgundy head relaxed back against the smooth bark, and he sighed, content in nature's solitude. One hand slowly drifted back and forth atop the grass, its blades tickling his fingers pleasantly.

He stayed like this for several minutes: listening, breathing. Being. Attempting to not think. The former came easy; the latter was a different story. He'd never before felt such a disconcerting, weird mixture of fulfillment and unease. He wanted to smile just as much as he'd love to punch the nearest object. Idly, he realized this was the curse of women, and he wondered for the billionth time why he bothered with them at all. Clearly, they were far more trouble than they were worth-

Oh, there's one now.

Fire-haired, tawny-skinned, and blessed with flawlessly-arranged curves, she exited the forest just in front of him, apparently having followed him here. Of course. Because when else would be such a damnably perfect time for her to show up? Her innate ability to harness dumb luck hadn't dimmed in the slightest. Kratos frowned curiously.

"Sara?"

She smiled, a little startled. She looked… off. One of her hands absently fiddled with the leather pocket at her clunky, though incredibly useful belt. "Hi. Mind if I join you?"

Kratos' common sense - which, recently, had been almost completely repressed - broke free of its mental chains and sprang to the forefront of his thoughts. Enraged, it demanded immediate attention. Bared teeth gnashed, fervent breath issued forth from flared, incensed nostrils.

 _Tell her goodbye,_ it ordered.

He cleared his throat. "Not at all. Is everything alright?"

Sara took a few stilted steps forward. She opened her mouth but didn't speak. Her chocolate eyes were distant, and focusing at his feet. She sucked in a breath and shook her head.

"No," she managed. "Not… not at all."

 _Then leave._

A few more steps, until she was standing just beside him. She slowly offered one hand, hovering it just above his left shoulder. "Will you… come with me?"

"Where?"

 _Why did you ask that? It doesn't matter. The answer is no._

"The sky," she breathed, gesturing her head to the stars. "I just need to get away for a little while."

 _Absolutely not._

At once, Kratos stood up. "...Alright."

He followed her silently out of the forest where, predictably, her royal-purple dragon Iona sat waiting patiently. Beneath the moonlight, the beast's silver spines gleamed brilliantly, a sharp array spanning from just behind her head to the very tip of her long, powerful tail. Sara avoided them with practiced, automatic movements as she positioned herself between Iona's golden wings, which fluttered in anticipation with a leathery scraping. Kratos joined her soon after, easing himself onto the dragon's back just behind her, which of course, meant that most of her back rested against his stomach and chest and her impeccably-shaped rear end pressed dangerously close to his-

 _Stop it._

"Do you ever feel like," she began suddenly, as Iona lumbered onto four legs and trotted forward, "no matter how hard you try, life is just out of your control?"

Well.

 _Do not answer that. Say nothing._

The sky leapt closer. Great wingbeats carried them upward, swaying his hair and cloak. Trees shrank while clouds grew.

"Control is an illusion," he said finally, over the wind. He was just enough taller than her that it put his head at the most perfect position behind her shoulder and ear; he spoke into it softly, despite the noise. "Life takes its own course. We are merely along for the ride."

 _Stop doing that._

She relaxed into him, resting her head onto his chest. Her bangs flew wildly about her eyes, but she didn't make any move to correct this, and instead stared intently into the stars.

"Maybe you're right," she muttered.

Iona apparently reached an appropriate altitude, because her wingbeats lessened into a mostly-steady glide. Which meant that Kratos, honestly, did not have an excuse for why his right hand went around Sara's waist and flattened against her stomach.

"There are times when the best way to regain stability is to let go," he said, contrarily.

 _Stop giving yourself excuses._

She still didn't move much. He kept his hand there, drawing her body flush against his. He felt her sigh, her thin stomach expanding and then squeezing empty.

"I have an idea," she said, smiling a little, with a touch of mischief.

His eyebrow quirked. "Hmm?"

 _Stop touching her._

She held out one hand beside her, palm-up. In it sprouted a small, quivering bundle of flames. Her other hand pointed up and just ahead. "Shoot a fireball- there. Right there."

Kratos opened his mouth to ask why, but quickly thought better of it. He mimicked her actions with his free hand, the outline of his frame flashing red for a brief moment.

 _Don't do it._

Sara's smile crept into a grin. Iona craned her head back to blink at them inquisitively.

"Ready…now!"

And their flames launched forth, streaking through the night sky, trailing tiny wisps until they crossed paths and bounced together. A glittering explosion boomed, as beautiful as it was deadly, sending flickering sparks out in all directions like a firework. Pieces of it rained down around them; Iona let out an impressed purr, making her ribs rumble beneath Kratos' legs.

"That was awesome," Sara said breathlessly. "Nice shot."

He nodded. Something peculiar and warm stirred in his chest. He closed his eyes and smiled into her hair. "You as well."

 _Stop. Touching. Her._

She seemed to sense this. That, or she just began to notice his inquisitive fingers curling into the front of her shirt - because her hand crawled atop his, and she sighed again, differently this time.

Below them, a small structure came into view, alight amidst vast planes of dark grasses. A House of Salvation. They both spotted it at the same time. Iona continued to sail forward. Silence descended. Kratos found that his free hand rather had a mind of its own. It slowly found its way to her hip and pulled her gently closer. His face hadn't moved from her hair, and as he breathed, each slow, steady exhale caressed the length of her bare neck.

 _What are you_ doing _?_

Sara's voice came forth just as her fingers slid between his: "...Should we land?"

 _ABSOLUTELY NOT._

He swallowed, and nodded again. "...Yes."

And so they did, in a series of lazy circles towards the ground. He dismounted first, and offered an assisting hand that she ignored completely. Iona departed with an affectionate nuzzle of her long scaly nose against Sara's back. Their timing was just as well, because over the distant mountains blossomed laden clouds, flashing white-hot every few seconds.

Sara glanced back at him, then walked forward towards the front door, motioning for him to follow.

 _You're being selfish._

He took one step then paused, his fingers crunching into fists. His eyes narrowed as he stared at her back. That warmth in his chest turned icy, dreadful. He let out a rough breath.

 _You know this will just make it worse._

"Wait," he ground out.

She did, and turned around. Her eyebrows raised expectantly.

"We should return," he continued, a low rumble. "The Chosen-"

"Will be fine tonight," she cut in, and then she was right in front of him, fighting to meet his elusive garnet eyes. Her raspy voice was low, smooth and sweet like melted chocolate - but tinged with just the slightest hint of something he didn't like.

"Be with me. Please."

 _Do not look at her. Turn around._

He met her gaze at last. It didn't last long, because a second later she kissed him, just a few soft, needful brushes of her lips against his that were over before they began.

That seemed to be her last argument in the matter, since she immediately headed for the entrance again, this time swinging its worn wooden door open and stepping into the muted light.

He followed her. Apparently, that was convincing enough for him.

Inside was pleasantly warm and dry. Everything carried a cozy sepia tint from the ancient wrought-iron lanterns hanging in each corner of the room. He'd been here before. So had she. He even recognized the priest behind the front desk: a plump middle-aged man who smiled kindly as he gave Sara Martel's blessing. She bowed deeply to him, closing her eyes, splaying one hand sincerely over her heart.

That bubbly, churning sensation swished through Kratos' chest with a deafening roar. He knew she was no believer; she tended to make that abundantly clear to everyone she met. But never once had she disrespected the faith of another person. If anything, she seemed to praise it. And he admired this ferociously.

"One night is 100 gald," the priest said finally. "Would you like a room?"

 _NO._

Sara quietly handed him a few gald pieces. "Yes, please."

"Enjoy your stay," the priest said, and passed her a small, tarnished key.

 _I am, in fact, leaving this instant._

Kratos followed her up the stairs.

The pointed tails of her duster swayed hypnotically from side to side. Embroidered dragons danced and dove among a teal-blue backdrop.

 _Stop looking. STOP LOOKING._

They made it to the door. She still hadn't said anything, and remained silent as she slid the key into the lock and twisted. It clanked warily, but opened after some encouragement. Sara stepped inside. The floorboards beneath her feet seemed in a similar predicament as the door, groaning in protest with each of her steps. Eventually she reached a plush carpet and the noise stopped; he joined her shortly, causing a chorus of squeaks all over again.

 _Selfish. You are selfish._

Kratos thought it was rather remarkable how a combination of wood floors and walls, along with that carpet, could absorb every sound in a room like a hungry sponge. He felt that his own breaths shot forth with all the fortitude of a waterfall. He swore he could hear his joints creak, especially those of his jaw, which tightened uncontrollably. The door closed behind him at last, an ear-shattering explosion.

The room's singular king-sized mattress sat just to her right. Her back was still to him when she began to shrug off her duster. The outerwear slithered down her arms, past her black shoulder-length gloves and finally, carefully, over the ubiquitous spikes of her gauntlets. Kratos was reminded of a snake shedding its skin; such an act left the creature extremely vulnerable, though more beautiful than ever before. She tossed the duster onto the back of a nearby chair. He stood just before the doorway, his boots lead, his muscles clumps of useless flesh.

 _Turn around. Open the door._

Those gauntlets came next, undone with careful, automatic movements. Three leather straps, handmade meticulously from dragon-skin and scales by Sara herself; each one unhinged with a unique click. Along with the black three quarter length gloves - which Kratos knew from experience were velvet-soft and entirely too inviting, especially when stretched perfectly over enticing arms - the gauntlets were shed, too, and joined the pile of their fallen counterparts.

 _Leave. Close your eyes. Anything._

This left an undershirt and, beneath that, a cloth bra. The air seemed impossibly warm, far more stifling than the comforting atmosphere downstairs. Sara stood still, probably out of discomfiture, but it only fanned the raging flames of his interest. One of the windows on the far wall had been left halfway open; outside, thunder shook the ground and the biting smell of rain leaked in. Droplets began pattering to the earth, a soothing melody. Kratos watched her, entirely unsure if he blinked at all. Not that he cared.

 _An omen. Do not stay._

Her shoulders squared. Her head turned. Her jaw ended up against her right shoulder, and by all means she should've aimed those endless earthen eyes in his direction, yet they kept frustratingly focused on anything but. The smooth skin beneath those freckles dotting her cheeks grew hot, taking on a humble pinkish hue. She breathed out. He did too, twenty feet away.

Enticingly, beautifully, she gripped the hem of her shirt and lifted it over her fiery head. Her eyes kept almost looking at him, yet just out of reach. The back of her nearly-bare torso faced him, an impeccable mixture of muscular and womanly - which was similar to everything about her. She was a demon in battle: fierce and clever, unforgiving and brutal. She trained hard, and daily. Yet she loved life's finer and lazy pleasures: whiskey, good food, sleeping late…

Sex. Can't forget that one.

 _Yes you can. It is simple: leave._

Kratos found rhyme and reason in every dip and curve of her skin, every half-moon shaped scar left by what he could only assume were dragon's claws. Though he didn't, and never could understand exactly why, Sara intrigued him like nothing else - to the point of madness. To the point where he… forgot. It made him nervous. Made his practiced palms sweaty. Made his jaw creak louder.

In the corner of their small room sat a large round candle, the only light; a damp breeze whispered inside, making its flame flicker and wane. Sara corrected this with a hushed exhale. The wick crackled as it caught fire with renewed voracity. She unbuckled her belt. It clung to her hips, limp and useless. Both of her thumbs hooked into the waist of her skirt and eased south with torturous lethargy.

Out of a combination of impatience and the uncomfortable realization he'd been standing there watching her like a total weirdo, Kratos picked this moment to step forward.

 _This is your last chance. Stop. Stop NOW._

Sara's skirt slid to her feet. She wore a sort of boyish, low-cut underwear that managed to be both functional and do incredible things for her equally incredible rear-end. It matched her bra in color and texture. He wanted to rip off both with his teeth.

Somehow, he managed to pause just behind her. Inches, really. He realized absently that he was breathing hard, and that she could probably hear it. Both his hands made frustrated twitches forward before snapping back into place beside his legs. Though she couldn't see them, his eyes were wild, blazing.

Common sense was on its knees, pleading at him: _Just go…_

She turned around. Her arms shot around his neck. Her body crushed itself against his, and so did her mouth, and Kratos was done in.

He kissed her savagely, gripping wanton handfuls of her silky skin, guiding one palm down the sensuous curve of her back. She unbuttoned his cloak with uncoordinated, desperate fumbles and moved on to his gloves; it took him a moment to work up the courage to remove his hands from her body, but he did so he could finish what she'd started. Her tongue came alive in his mouth, lashing against his with ravenous persistence, accompanied every few seconds by fragile, breathless sounds. And one of these strengthened, bursting uncontrollably from her lips when he did away with her underwear (albeit not with his teeth) and his fingertips curled into the slick junction between her thighs.

Like plucking a tense string, she came instantly, her legs trembling and barely remaining upright.

" _Sara_ ," he moaned involuntarily. "Oh, gods, _yes_."

His heart felt about to leap out of his chest. Breathing hurt. He splayed her out on top of the mattress, never once releasing his grip on her core. He direly wanted to unbuckle his pants, but that would mean using two hands and one of his was immaculately occupied already. Sara writhed into his touch, her hips lifting off the mattress and swaying with some sort of serpentine feminine magic that he considered the pinnacle of a turn-on.

"Don't stop," she choked from behind one shivering hand.

Not that he had planned on it, but that was still a nice encouragement.

Kratos hovered at the foot of the bed, his free arm bracing him steady as he continued pistoning his fingers - the two middle ones, repeatedly, forward, then up, then back in a half-circle, in the way he'd discovered she craved. She futilely attempted to stifle all sounds behind her palm, but it didn't do much.

He watched with wide, awed eyes and burning lungs. "Again, my love."

" _F-fuck-"_

She erupted, her spine curving into a glorious tawny arch. The air sailed from his chest. Obviously, he was monstrously hard beneath his pants and belts, yet still untouched; he almost came anyway, and had to adamantly stop his eyes from rolling back into his head.

With a curse, he pulled his fingers from within her and eased them into his mouth. His eyes slammed closed. She was addictively delicious, a taste that could never quite whet his appetite - not that he didn't try. She said his name, a strangled, thankful moan, as his mouth replaced his fingers.

While visually appealing, her uncontrolled movements were a nuisance in this position, so he used both hands to hold her errant hips firmly in place. She _hated_ that. She fought him fervently, attempting to crush his confident wrists with her grip so he'd let go, but he remained immune to the effort. When she stilled and obeyed, Kratos rewarded her fiercely with well-placed swirls of his tongue and lips. She caught on quickly enough, and instead chose to clamp her fists into his hair as an outlet of her dissent. This, he didn't mind, and found nothing but reassuring.

It was difficult for her to reach a full climax like this, and he knew it. More importantly, he liked it. He teased her forever, relishing in each curse and groan. One of his hands climbed up her thigh, his fingertips drawing invisible, tickling lines along her pelvis and the junction of her hip. The other began unbuckling his first belt. Across the room, that formerly-tiny flame topping the solitary candle raged and burned at twice its normal size. White wax ran in rivers down its sides.

"Kratos," she managed, air sawing in and out of her throat, her core weeping, begging, "F-fuck you-"

He stilled. His head lifted just slightly, and he frowned and licked his lips. "That's not nice, Sara."

Before he could react, her palm shoved clumsily into his forehead. He blinked and half-stumbled backwards. She bit her bottom lip and exhaled a relieved sigh as her own fingers replaced his mouth.

"Don't need you, anyway," she hissed, and Kratos suddenly found himself with a front row seat to the most incredible show on earth.

Honestly, he wasn't even angry. This gave him a perfect opportunity to finish removing his shirt and pants with a very helpful visual aid. Her right arm was straight along her body, yet with a curved wrist that allowed her fingers the perfect position for self-pleasure. Her right arm was also her dominant arm, one that had he'd witnessed take down countless enemies in battle, and its curves and muscles now stood out in stark relief beneath her tanned skin. He watched as her throat worked, with her head craned back into the mattress at an angle that couldn't have been comfortable, but was marvelous to look at. Her toes curled into the bedsheets. Now free, her hips worked their ridiculous magic again in time with each movement of her hand.

"No," he agreed, a quiet growl. "You do not."

Her breaths got louder, faster. Her left hand joined its counterpart, rubbing in furious circles as the other penetrated repeatedly just as his own fingers had moments before.

At last, he straightened his spine and palmed his cock with one steady hand. His angled jaw tilted heavenward as he breathed a grateful gasp. The merest touch was torture of the highest order. He watched her fingers disappear in and out of her waiting core; his hips bucked forward reflexively beneath his own strokes, wishing he could take their place. He would, soon - but not yet.

"Make yourself come," he commanded, in a voice that was more a snarl than words. He was going to come, too, but it didn't entirely matter if she knew that, although he figured she did. Her fingers gripped, pushed, and pulled in a hypnotic rhythm that he matched perfectly.

Sara's eyes opened. Her fiery head lifted, strands of her bangs sticking down over her piercing gaze. She watched him intently, all trace of her fervor repressed in lieu of an animalistic focus. She loved this, watching him - just as much as he loved watching her. And she should - his ivory skin gleamed, the carved muscles in his chest and arms lusciously bunching and relaxing beneath it.

He worked himself with lithe movements, his palm swirling from base to tip in long twists. His throat tightened. He shook spikes of burgundy hair from his face as he stared down at her, crazed garnet eyes meeting chocolate. The ardent candle across the room blazed impossibly wide and bright. Her eyelids fluttered closed once more; her mouth gaped, and she sucked in a gasp of air.

His shoulders twitched. His jaw dropped. "Sara…" He lost control, punching his hips forward desperately. Kratos emptied his lungs and groaned, unabashed, carnal, as his cock twitched in his hand: " _Y-Yes-"_

He came with her, his seed spilling onto her shivering stomach. Her undulating spine gradually returned flat, but Kratos felt absolutely no relief. His cock didn't even think about softening in the slightest, although it was now extremely, overwhelmingly sensitive; his hand hovered just above it, his fingers tense and spread apart, hesitant claws. He exhaled a long, tormented breath.

His gaze flicked up to meet hers just as she began sitting up. Sara paused at the edge of the bed in front of him. That pinkish hue to her cheeks had crept into a full-on, heady blush. Her pillowy lips were slightly parted as she breathed, revealing an anticipatory, dancing tongue. She looked immaculate; hungry, and just as much licentiously appetizing. His heart leapt around wildly beneath his ribs, though he swallowed hard and gave no outward sign.

Sara's hands drifted towards his body with deferential patience. Her palms pressed flush against his abs, then slid around to his flank as she leaned forward and took him into her scalding mouth.

"Oh, _Sara-_ " His head snapped backwards. One of her hands joined her mouth with heavenly tenacity. She kept humming small sounds of appreciation that made his hips twitch. He really wanted to look down and watch his cock slide in and out of her lips, but couldn't find the willpower to open his eyes. She mastered him, fully, completely. He hated it with as much fervor as he loved it. "Perfect," he murmured, utterly relinquished.

She paused to breathe his name, and he took this opportunity to slide his arms beneath hers and make her stand. Her own found their automatic place around his neck, and he ravaged her mouth forceful, crazed kisses. He tasted her natural flavor, from her mouth as well as her earlier core - and yet something just a bit darker, spicier. Musky. Himself, he realized, as his fingertips bit into her back. His blood surged, rushing emphatically through his veins, making his cock cry out for its true home. He lurched forward and slammed her into the mattress, trapping her wrists above her head with ease, biting and licking at her pulsing throat.

"Please," Sara whispered, and he wasn't sure if it were a protest or a beg; either way, Kratos had no interest in deviating from his intentions. His mouth headed towards her breast in a trail of sloppy kisses. His forehead nudged at her sternum once, a quick, affectionate gesture before his mouth clamped closed over her nipple. Her fingers, which had been resting peacefully in his hair, now flexed against his scalp in a sharp flinch, and she drew in a breath through gritted teeth.

"Sh- _shit,"_ she groaned, an unfounded objection, because her hands eagerly guided his head to her opposite breast. "Like that, _please…"_

He rose to his hands and knees, heeding her request. Gently, though with just enough pressure to wonderfully hurt, he bit and suckled on her nipple, swiveling his head from side to side, testing the boundaries of her flesh. In this position, his cock sat mere inches from its destination. shuddering, weeping. His hands traced down each side of her sweltering frame, past her ribs and onto her hips, where a few fingers gave an experimental sweep across her sex.

Friction was literally absent. He'd never felt anything as inviting and wet. Her body was burning, crying out to erupt in a shower of sparks just like earlier, on their unscripted, fateful flight here. Deep in his throat, a sound began, churning, rumbling like the first warnings of an earthquake. Unstoppably, his fingers entered her once more: "Oh, _fuck-"_ she shrieked, slapping her hand over her mouth as she came again, whimpering. "Kratos, don't stop, please, _please-"_

"My love," he groaned; his hips surged forward, and his cock impaled her core at last. It took every drop of his willpower not to instantly come again - not that two orgasms was anywhere near his limit (Exspheres had more than one type of benefit), but holding on just heightened every already-breathtaking sensation.

He kissed her again, and held her thrashing head still with both hands while the rest of his body was supported on his elbows. His hips sparked to life - slowly. Evenly. Unhurried, and marvelously patient. As usual, it was his job to calm the various fires of her emotions: whether it was anger, despair, or in this case, complete sexual abandonment. Sara lived and loved voraciously, a human explosion to which he always - gladly - attended the aftermath.

It worked. Her tense hands relaxed as she slid them into his hair. She uncoiled, a contented sigh easing between her lips. Her head lolled back onto the mattress, then turned to one side so he could continue his gracious kisses down her throat and all along her clavicle.

"You're not real," she murmured tacitly.

He smiled against her skin. That was, strangely enough, her ultimate compliment: when she was so impressed or appreciative of him that her mind reached critical gratitude-mass, and she became convinced that he was too good to be true. False - or, in other words, not real.

Kratos raised his head. His lips swept over her cheek before hovering just beside her ear. "Then what is _this_ ," he asked, accenting his last word with a sudden, fierce shove of his hips. She gasped, and it trailed off in a moaned curse.

His arms slid beneath her shoulders. As he raised up, he urged her with him, and repositioned himself sitting with his back against the headboard and her dazed, glistening body resting perfectly in his lap. He gripped her hips again, firmly, and guided them in small, grinding circles atop his cock.

"Or this, Sara," he continued, and barely steadied his voice when she caught on and her pelvis started rocking against his with unrelenting, mechanical precision. One of her hands reached out and grabbed the top of the headboard - an anchor for the rest of her body, which arched elegantly away from him. The whispering candle, which had momentarily returned to burning at a less crazed rate, lent a faultless glow to each of her natural curves.

"I have," she began, her jaw straining upwards, "a very vivid imagination, Kratos."

"As do I," he rumbled, his breath catching. "Apparently."

She laughed, her freckled face breaking out in a grin. She straightened her spine, sliding her hands to the back of his neck as their lips met again. She pushed him, a bit awkwardly, away from the headboard and finally flat on his back against the mattress. His arms splayed out beside him for a moment, uselessly, before his fingertips began tracing languid lines down her ribs.

And she just looked at him - silently, though her hips lazily continued their caress. It almost seemed like she were an artist intently studying the curves and lines of his face. Kratos stared up at her with bright, piercing garnet eyes. His chest felt warm again. Her next breath trembled just slightly.

Common Sense scrambled onto the scene, frantically waving a pair of angry red flags: _You fool - she's going to try and say she loves you. Stop her._

He needed to. He knew that. Guilt coated his tongue with bitterness. He tried to remember her words, to use them as a metaphorical sword to battle that nagging voice: _"Your fate is sealed, Kratos: you're a good guy. I see that so clearly, even if you can't."_

A good guy. He was a good… guy.

He didn't know what the future held. Or how they would manage it, if at all; he just knew that he wanted to be with her.

And maybe… that was enough.

 _Stop her, now-_

"No," he heard himself say.

Mercifully, the words never left her lips. He wasn't sure if it was her own choice or because of his unwitting objection. Her brow furrowed a little. She traced one thumb idly along his jaw. "'No?'"

Oh, right. He'd spoken that aloud. He cleared his throat, his hands pausing against her ribs. He opened his mouth, beginning some sort of explanation - but quickly closed it, figuring a better way to resolve this situation was tried and true distraction.

He pulled her head to his for a simmering kiss. He urged her hips in motion once more, a soft moan leaking out of his throat and into her mouth. "Make love to me, Sara," he concluded against her lips. "I want to come for you."

"Oh, gods, Kratos," she breathed, her eyes slamming closed. "Yes…"

That was all it took. He realized, suddenly, and with a pang of discomfort, that he knew her too well. She heeded his request with appropriately draconian fierceness. Each of her hands planted into the mattress on either side of his head, where her fingers clawed into the sheets. The gems on the back of them glowed white-hot, fueling her frantic heart. Her hips were an unrelenting torrent of crashing waves that left him drowning. He felt like he should say something appreciative, but his throat was paralyzed, and all that escaped it was a corporeal groan.

"Don't wait," she ordered.

Kratos obeyed without hesitation.

His hands clamped down on her hips. The orgasm that tore through his body nearly rendered him unconscious. He was left wonderfully vulnerable, a willing slave to her each and every twitch. When he managed to open his eyes, he looked straight into hers, gleaming, pinpoint, watching him hungrily. Sara was powerful, and honestly a bit terrifying, and he wouldn't change her one bit.

"You're so fucking gorgeous when you come," she purred, dropping her lips to his neck. "I mean, not that you aren't all the time, but just… damn."

"You speak for yourself," he countered. He crossed his arms around her shoulders and eased her into his chest just as he turned onto one side. Thunder abruptly crashed just outside the window; she flinched at the noise, so he tucked her head beneath his chin and brought her closer. Her fingers ran in soothing, grateful circles all along his lower back.

For several moments, both of them laid there quietly, entangled and drained, listening to the sound of the rain. In the corner, the candle - which had been reduced to two-thirds of its original size, resulting in an overflowing puddle of wax - dimmed, staying alight just barely. Kratos wondered if this was her doing, or the wind's.

"I should shower," she said finally, and rose onto one elbow. Her pumpkin-orange hair had half-escaped its rubber band, and she freed the rest of it, slipping the band onto her wrist. She shook her head once, and as she sat up, she passed her lips against his in a fleeting kiss.

That sounded like a remarkably wonderful idea. He sat up too, dragging a hand through his own hair; unlike hers, it behaved itself and settled mostly back into place. "I will join you."

She smirked back at him over one bare, speckled shoulder. "You're not sick of me yet?"

"Never," he replied automatically. This made her pause, and her eyes widened just slightly. It took him a few seconds to realize why - and that he'd sort of unwittingly given away precisely how hard he'd fallen for her. Not that it was a complete mystery, although he did desire to keep the whole truth a secret for as long as possible.

 _You're hopeless,_ Common Sense sneered. He wanted to crack open his own skull just to slam his fist into its stupid mouth.

"Then come on," she said, sauntering naked towards the bathroom with confident strides. "Hot water doesn't last long in these places."

Speaking of the bathroom, it was tiny - but strangely enough, the shower took up nearly two thirds of it, with a large, ceramic oval base that doubled as a bathtub. A lantern hung unlit just beside the door; she pursed her lips and blew. It crackled to life, casting bouncing shadows across the walls. Then she bent over to twist on the water faucet. Kratos exhaled involuntarily.

In a few seconds, steam began billowing from behind the heavy curtain. She picked up one of the small bars of soap on the sink's counter and ripped open the paper packaging with her teeth. And she stepped inside, hissing a little as the first droplets hit her skin. She always bathed at volcanic temperatures, convinced it was the only way to get truly clean. He took a washcloth from one of the towel racks and followed her.

The water beat into his back, trickling down the lean muscles there all the way to his heels. She was facing away from him, gliding the soap up her forearms and shoulders and across her chest, leaving glistening, bubbly trails. He watched silently, inexplicably entranced.

He realized suddenly how tense his back had been; the near-scalding water eased its knots. The washcloth in his hand had become heavy with moisture. As she scrubbed the soap onto her stomach and sides, he stepped forward, pressing flush against her back, and swept the cloth gently along the outside of her right arm.

 _This is a terrible idea._

She jerked, nearly dropping the soap (wouldn't _that_ make for an interesting experience). He drew his hand slowly back up her arm, and then down her side and onto her stomach. Her breaths were usually a huge feedback for him, but he couldn't hear any this time because of the slapping water - so he just kept on, eventually skating across her neck and shoulders. His cock had thankfully behaved itself so far; he really hadn't intended for any of this part to be sexual. Merely intimate, appreciative.

…Loving.

Sara stood very still. When her skin had been cleaned and rinsed, he pressed his lips to it - right at the tender spot where neck met shoulder. His arm hooked beneath hers, and he guided the washcloth up from her stomach and over the middle of her chest-

At once, she lurched away from him and slammed the faucet closed. He blinked, and when his eyes opened she was facing him. He could hear her breaths now; they were shallow and quick, and her russet eyes were wide and almost watery, although that could've been from the shower.

"What are we, Kratos?" she rasped.

 _Told you._

He swallowed. Drops from the washcloth sputtered just beside his feet, a steady ticking.

"Humans, I would assume," he offered.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't play dumb. You know what I meant."

"I am not sure that I do."

"You haven't…" she paused, and steadied her voice. Or reconsidered her words, he wasn't sure which. Her gaze slid off to the side. "The way you touch me like that. It's… _serious._ "

The look on her face was hesitant, unsure. Vulnerable. He'd never seen it before. He didn't want to see it again.

"I need to know," she murmured, still avoiding his eyes, "If you're serious, too."

Well, there it was. Kratos had officially crossed the line.

Really, he'd known this for awhile now - but this was the first time she'd actually spoken of it. All he had to go on so far were her reactions, the way she handled herself around him. Hearing it straight from her mouth, though… it didn't have the impact he thought it would. Kind of like he already knew it was inevitable.

Telling her this naked and standing in a bathtub was rather unexpected, however.

He sighed. One edge of his mouth twitched up in a subtle smile, then he huffed a laugh. "I asked for none of this."

Her head raised, and she finally looked at him, bewildered.

"I did not offer you my heart, Sara," he continued. He took one of her hands and pressed her palm to his chest, making her long fingers splay across his damp skin. "It was stolen, right from here - and it now rests with you. Do with it what you will."

Her mouth hung open. Strands of wet hair dangled over her eyes. She looked utterly baffled, and in conjunction with their circumstances, utterly comical. So of course, he found it utterly endearing.

"Oh," she said. "I guess, I… um, okay."

Kratos reached behind her and restarted the water. In the process, he slipped one arm around her waist and pulled her close. His muttered softly against her ear: "Now, may I finish what I started?"

"Okay," she repeated into his shoulder.

He smoothed the washcloth up and down her back, planting slow, meticulous kisses against the side of her throat. Kisses he _almost_ didn't feel guilty for - which wasn't perfect, but still a massive improvement. He started to think of how bad that was, and how much she would absolutely _hate_ him when the time came, and other frigid things that sluiced through his thoughts - but that warmth in his chest blazed impossibly hot, melting them all. And it had nothing to do with the scorching shower or her bare skin.

"I'll take care of it," she said finally.

Oh, that one hurt.

Yet in the best of ways.

He stilled, barely breathing, and simply held her as close as he could. The water rained over them both. He'd gotten used to the temperature, and now found it quite perfect.

"Alright," he agreed.


End file.
